


Deducing the Dead

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sherlock AU, forensic Pathology, sprinkling of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brilliant (and a bit BAMF) John Watson, Forensic Pathologist at Bart's Hospital, and his new Technician, Graduate Chemist Sherlock Holmes, are opposites, and seem to be poles apart, but oposites attract, and have a habit of sticking together. </p><p>My fluff sense is tingling...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apiologyandtea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiologyandtea/gifts).



> For the Tumblr prompt from johnwatsonology. 
> 
> Brilliant John Watson, Consulting Doctor/ Medical Examiner and his cuddly sidekick, forensic technician, and blogger Sherlock Holmes…

“What have you got for me today, Greg?” John Watson picked his way carefully over the building site that was now a crime scene, trying to avoid tripping over the piles of broken bricks and bits of discarded piping. Greg Lestrade looked up and smiled grimly. _He never wears the right shoes,_ Greg thought, with amused affection. The black brogues were standard issue for this quiet and focused man who stuck to dark formal suits and hid behind his black framed glasses.

"Not much, I'm afraid. The victim is a shadow of his former self. In fact, it's probably safe to say most of him is well nigh bloody invisible." Greg stood back as John approached, throwing out a hand to help him over the rubble. John took the offered support and smiled his thanks, letting Greg take his weight for a moment. Not many people knew that John had a shrapnel injury in his left leg; he was loath to admit weakness but Greg was quietly proud that of all the people John interacted with on a daily basis, he had managed to become the closest thing to a friend that the man possessed. The fact that John had allowed him so close was a bit of a privilege. The detective inspector had known the pathologist for the last five years, ever since he had been invalided out of the army. Greg was convinced that John had got the job for the simple reason that he related more easily to the dead than the living, although over those years Greg had seen him emerge a little from the armour plating he had developed as a shield against the world. Hell, he had even coaxed him to the pub once in a while. John was a brilliant man, skilled at putting the evidence together and solving the serious crimes they dealt with on a daily basis, but he was a bit of a loner. Despite that, he was meticulous and careful, dedicated to bringing the truth to light.

Today, though, a tall young man was hovering behind John, unruly dark hair falling over his eyes and his thick cable knit jumper looking a little big on him and making him look thinner than he was. Pale eyes stared at him with interest and passed over to take in their surroundings. Greg was struck by the frankly ridiculously sharp cheekbones and pale skin. “It’s more a case of what I don’t have for you,” the DI said, dragging his attention back to the matter in hand. He pointed toward the wall next to them. “It’s around there,” he said, then, unable to resist his curiosity he looked toward the newcomer. “So, who’s this then?” He grinned goodnaturedly at the young man, waiting for John to perform the introductions.

“Greg, meet Sherlock Holmes, our new Forensic Technician.” John said, perfunctorily. “Sherlock, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, NSY.” The young man nodded and took the offered hand in a firm dry grip and shook, twice.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, sounding a bit shy and a little off balance.

Greg’s eyebrows drew together, although his lips formed a smile. “You settling in okay? He’s not working you too hard?” The young man turned his gaze on Greg and blinked, uncertainly. _Jesus,_ Greg thought, _this one was wet behind the ears._

“It’s fine, thanks. I’m...getting used to it.”

"Good, good. That’s fine then.” Greg turned to John. “So what happened to Molly?”

“Molly? Nothing. She’s decided to go on some exchange or other to the US. She got to know one from their CSIs and got an invite to go over there, see how the other half live.”

“Nice for her? Where’s she gone?”

“Las Vegas apparently,” John said.

“What, like off the tele?”

“Kind of, although she was insisting it wasn’t like that.” John frowned at Greg and then peered around the wall constructed of undressed breeze blocks. A foot lay there, neatly severed a little above the ankle, an off-white converse still on it. “Oh,” John said. “Any more anywhere or is this it?”

“Nope, no more, not yet at any rate. Although I wouldn’t be surprised to find more later. It’s early in the day. The foreman called it in about half an hour ago when he turned up for work. I’ve got uniform searching the site. The developers are having kittens about the delay.”

“My heart bleeds,” John replied dryly, crouching down to examine the leg. “Sherlock,” he called. “Come take a look, tell me what you see.” Greg watched the man clamber around the wall for a better look.

“Looks like it wasn’t cut off in situ…”

“Well, there’s nobody attached to it…” Greg said. “That’s bit of a no-brainer, isn’t it?"

“No, I meant there’s no blood, so this is not the site of the initial murder. The cuts are precise, surgical, no ragged edges. Done with a scalpel blade. Bone is sawed through, not splintered. There are no obvious bootprints, so maybe it was thrown here, from….that way,” he suggested, looking toward the road.

“Thrown?” Greg frowned.

“Yes, Inspector, thrown,” Holmes reiterated.

“Very good, Sherlock,” John smiled and nodded.

“What? John…Y.you’re agreeing with him?” Greg stuttered, incredulously.

“Blood splatter, Greg. It never lies. Here, where it hit the wall, and there, on the ground, a few centimeters from its present position. Indicating it landed there, after bouncing off the wall, from…” he pivoted to face the road, “There,” he pointed. “Someone drove by, or walked by, and threw the offending limb over the fence. It’s roughly boomerang shaped, so it could have been flung a ways. Like a wellie,” he said, grinning with the black humour of it. A slow answering grin bloomed on Sherlock’s lips, lighting his face. _God, but that is one beautiful man_ , Greg found himself thinking. “Your face,” John said, and leaned over to thump Greg gently on Greg's shoulder. “Come on, it’s no big deal. Might be difficult to locate the rest of the body but we’ve enough to extrapolate some DNA. It might give us more than you think. Time of death might be a tad difficult but we’ll see.”

“So what now?” Greg asked.

Sherlock smirked and glanced at him from under his fringe. “The game’s afoot?” he suggested.


	2. Everyone Has a History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants an excuse....

After the initial groan at the frankly terrible pun, Greg gave in to laughter. He found he actually really liked the young man; he was a breath of fresh air and he had smiled quite shyly back at Greg which had given the inspector pause for thought. Would it be enough to thaw the remains of John Watson’s ice-clad heart, Greg wondered? _God knows, I’ve tried_ , Greg thought. He watched Watson working in that meticulous way of his to gather evidence and remembered the first time they had met, five years ago.

Greg remembered accompanying a father to formally identify the body of his son. It had been Watson’s first day. Molly had taken the father gently through the process, sidelining Greg as the man sobbed quietly over the remains of his child. Greg distanced himself but there must have been something in his expression because a strange voice murmured “All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring isn’t an advantage…”

Greg looked toward the speaker, seeing a shorter man with sandy blond hair and dark blue eyes staring sadly at the scene unfolding before them. Those eyes were older than the rest of him, his expression somber. “Doesn’t mean I don’t,” Greg replied softly. “Seen too much of this but I can’t believe the world would be better if we stopped caring. Wouldn’t we lose our humanity?”

The man met his eyes and then his face broke into a small smile. “John Watson,” he said, thrusting a hand out to shake. “New Medical Examiner.”

“Greg Lestrade, Inspector with the Met.”

“Homicide and Serious Crimes?” Greg nodded. “We might be seeing a lot of each other then.”

“Molly helping you get settled in then? She’s good at that. Been a stalwart of this place for a while now.”

“Mm, yes, she’s been very helpful.”

 _So what’s your history,_ Greg wanted to ask, but didn’t. He settled for something more prosaic. “So, where were you before Bart’s?” he enquired casually.

“The army,” Watson replied, but his smile had gone brittle and his eyes were wary.

 _Not good then,_ Greg thought. He nodded acknowledgement. “Bit of a change then.”

Watson had nodded once. “What I need though. At least my patients don’t answer back.” Greg stifled his laugh in respect for the sorrow in the room. Graveyard humour was familiar to him though. Watson cleared his throat. “Caught the killer then?”

“Yes, last night. At least I could tell the father that his son’s murderer was behind bars. Something satisfying in that. Wish we’d got to him sooner though. If we had then his boy might still be alive.”

“You can’t save everyone, Greg.” The tone of voice said more than the words ever could. Watson had lost people he cared about, that much was a given. Greg turned to face him.

“Fancy a pint later?” He watched as the man blinked and considered the offer. He was wavering as to whether to accept or not. Greg checked his watch. “I get off shift in an hour. We can sink a couple and I can tell you what I know about things around here if you like? Just you and me. I can give you the insider’s view, as it were.” Watson seemed to take a moment, then nodded, decisively. If there was anything Greg came to appreciate in the following years it was that, once decided, John stuck to his choice and he usually came to those decisions quickly.

Several pints later, they had talked about their first loves of footy and rugby, including the six nations, and then gone on to discuss—in depth—West Ham’s pitiful chances and Arsenal’s rubbish new manager. They commiserated with each other over everything from Greg’s divorce to John’s alcoholic sister. “Do this again some time?” John had asked at the end of the evening and Greg had agreed. Since then they had made a semi-regular thing of it, whenever their work allowed.

About six months in to the arrangement, Greg tried to push things along a bit. Their evening had gone the usual way; small talk, pints, in-depth analysis of football, more pints, increasingly insulting analysis of football, still more pints. Greg wasn’t drunk but could later hide behind that if necessary. He decided to try something, just to test the water, as it were. He leaned over and risked his fingers brushing John’s. The man turned to look at him and his eyes narrowed on seeing how close their faces were.

“Stop right there, Greg,” John said mildly.

Greg paused and frowned. “Stop what?” he asked.

John smiled and shook his head. “Stop that, that’s what. That...thing. It’s fine, by the way,” John added. “Doesn’t bother me or anything, it’s just...no. I’m not...not looking, not ready, not…not anything, really. I’m flattered, don’t misunderstand me…” Greg sat back and sought refuge in his pint. “So don’t get embarrassed or anything.” John smiled, warmly. “But I will deck you if you try anything more, just so you know.” Greg chuckled and watched John sink his own pint. The medical examiner rose to his feet. “Thanks for tonight, Greg.”

“Damn, John...I’m sorry. I...I don’t do that to just anybody, you know. We’ve known each other a while...and I like you...”

“Yeah, well…” Surprisingly, John grinned. “I’ll take that as a complement. I like you too, just...not in that way. I might be a little higher up the Kinsey scale than a flat zero but I’m not in the market for anything right now, so it’s not just you, okay? Right, we up for this again on Friday?”

“Er...yeah, if you want.”

John had smiled and patted his shoulder. “No problem, mate. You take care now.”

Having stated his case, John was content to let matters lie. They had settled into a steady friendship since then, a good working relationship and a comfortable companionship that both men liked and were content with. By their fifth year they were as close as two blokes could get without taking things to another level and neither of them would. There was no need. _And now Sherlock’s arrived to upset the applecart_ , Greg thought, watching the agile young man clamber across the rubble of the building site like an eager puppy. He was cute, chatty, personable, in fact he was everything John Watson was not, not even after five years of therapy. Greg found himself wondering, then he stopped himself. _What the fuck am I thinking? I'm too old, for the God’s own sakes_. The man must be in his twenties, at most. Greg was pushing fifty. Far too much of a gap, even if he wasn’t dead yet.

“John, I’m going to head back to the office. If you need anything, call me, okay? I’ll be around for the findings tomorrow sometime after lunch.” They had shared a wave and gone their separate ways.

Sherlock watched him go. “He seems nice,” he said absently.

“Greg Lestrade is a good copper,” John said, locking a swab into it’s plastic sheath and snapping the lid shut. “Don’t break him, whatever you do.”

“Break him? Why on earth…?”

“Oh, come on, Lock. I’m not blind.” The young man actually blushed. John grinned. “Our sexy Silver Fox is a popular man. You wouldn't be the first to...appreciate his assets, as it were."

“I can imagine,” Sherlock replied. “Do you want me to go see if I can find any evidence on the path?”

Back at the lab, John removed the shoe, examined the foot and made a start on the report while Sherlock determined blood group and the other more mundane results. He worked diligently, uncomplaining, although John well knew the young man was capable of more taxing stuff. He had located a few blood spots on the path, determined that the person who had thrown the limb had probably done so from a car. His sharp eyes had spotted a single blood spot in the road, too far out to be on the left hand lane. Sherlock's test result there was positive. 

“The blood spot in the road belongs to the victim," he announced. "So, they were going west, heading to the main road. We could request cctv from last night, see if anything shows up?”

“Greg can do that. Bit of a long shot though.”

“You..er.. you want me to call him?” The request was said too innocently to be anything other than an excuse to talk to the man again.

“Jesus, could you be any more obvious, Sherlock?”

“Oh, come on, John. Give me a break. The man is gorgeous...Sorry, you probably can’t see it because you’re _not gay,_ are you? As you keep telling me.”

John laughed. “No, I’m not but I’ll let you into a secret. Greg is.”

“What?”

“Well, he jumps both ways but he has a leaning toward guys. So don’t tell me I don’t tell you anything.” John waved at him exasperatedly. “Go on, go call him. Just don’t be surprised if he says he’s too old for you though. The man’s pushing fifty and has a thing about his age…”

“I’m thirty four...I’m not that young," Sherlock protested.

“Sherlock, you look younger and you know it. Now...oh, just fucking call him, okay? But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


	3. What's in a Name?

Greg missed the call. He was in a meeting until well after lunch, his schedule crammed with things he would rather not have to do, policy meetings being one of them. All part of a DI’s job these days. He scrolled through his messages later over coffee and found the call from an unknown number. Accessing his voice mail proved that it belonged to Sherlock.

“Oh, er...Hi? I...um...I’m just calling to...see if you could...well, John...Dr Watson says you can access the CCTV cameras for the street that the building site looks out onto, the one we think they threw the foot from? Well, there was a spot of blood in the roadway…” Greg smiled as he listened to the slightly rambling confirmation that the blood belonged to their victim and proved the car was travelling toward the main road. The deduction was sound and there might be something in that. He would have to make enquiries. Right then, he felt the need to call the young man back.

“Holmes…” came the deceptively deep baritone.

“Hello,” Greg said, warmly. “Sorry I was in a meeting when you called but it sounds like you’ve had a result there.”

“Oh, er...yes, well, we...I, rather, found a blood spot in the road, too far into the right hand lane to be from a car going east but possibly from a car going west, so John thought you would be able to pull CCTV?”

“Yeah, I can. I guess you’ve no idea on timing?”

“Well, according to the site manager, nobody was on site from midnight to 6am, which narrows it down, but the site is near to a pub which had a late license for last night as there was a wedding party there…”

“When did you find that out?”

“Well, I knew you’d want some kind of margin for the cctv footage, so I phoned the pub after I called you, to find out when their chucking out time was. Turned out it was 2am. Supposing people were leaving there, that gives about ten, twenty minutes, half an hour at the outside for the last stragglers to have witnessed anything. Assuming it was quiet when the car drove by, that makes it anywhere between 2am and 06.10 which is when the call was logged. A four hour window.”

“Well, that’s not a bad window in which to work. I guess if we don’t find anything I can widen it to before 2am in case it was a drive-by when the street was quiet. I’ll see where we go with it.”

“I suppose you didn’t find any more body parts?”

“Not yet. I’ve put the word out with the local station so if anyone brings anything in or gets in touch they’ll get in touch with us as soon as.”

“John is pretty sure the man is fairly young, his bones haven’t completely ossified. That usually completes around about 25 years old.”

“Does he have an opinion on a minimum age?”

“Size of the foot vs the ossification, probably 18. It’s a size ten, white male, reasonably well-cared for nails, no callouses, the shoe was probably about six months old and a good make, the sock was from M&S.”

“Okay, so...IC1 male, between 18 and 24…” Greg was busy scribbling in his notebook. “I think it might be best if I come over. I could do with a rundown of everything you’ve found out. Good job by the way.” 

“Oh, thanks. Look...I don’t want to be forward or anything...but, would you fancy a drink after work?”

Greg paused. _Has he just asked me out? Just a friendly drink, right?_ “Okay then, yeah. We can...get to know each other. I’ll head on over and we can go after I’ve talked to John.”

**000000**

The look on Sherlock’s face was enough to make John laugh when he returned to the lab. The young man had appeared a bit crestfallen after the first call, when Greg had been unavailable and he had been bounced to voicemail. When the call had come through, John watched as Sherlock became animated and had quit the lab to talk. “He was agreeable then?” John asked, observing the spring in his assistant’s step.

Sherlock nodded, grinning. “He’s going to check CCTV.”

“That’s good, but not what I meant.”

“We’re...um...going for a pint after work.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea. Might join you there…” He watched Sherlock’s face as the man looked a bit frustrated and then broke out laughing. “It’s okay, lad. Jesus, I wouldn’t intrude on your attempt to chat up our dear inspector. Just don’t be disappointed of he says no, okay?”

“You don’t ask, you don’t get,” Sherlock answered, with a wink. John chuckled and went back to his computer. “He’s on his way over to talk to us, by the way. Wants a run-down on everything we’ve got on our victim.”

“You'll find he does that a lot,” John said. "Likes to hear it from us, rather than read it."

"Hello..." Sherlock was scrutinising the heel of the shoe. "John...I think I've found something..." He flipped out a small magnifying lens and peered more closely at the canvas.

**000000**

Greg walked in to the lab twenty minutes later and cast about for John, but there was no sign of him. Sherlock emerged from another door, looked up and saw him and Greg could not ignore the bright smile that crossed his face.

“Greg, hi.”

“Hi, where’s John?”

“Hunting coffee. He said if you arrived I should direct you to the file on his desk.”

Greg nodded and went over to the desk under the window. The file was on top and unmissable. He picked it up and stopped. There was a post it note on the desktop beneath. There was an arrow on it, pointing to the desk drawer. Greg looked at the drawer beneath the arrow and surreptitiously pulled it open to reveal another note, written in John’s small neat handwriting. He read it quickly.

_Greg, take this as a heads up. The lad is attracted to you. Let him down gently and don’t hurt him or you will answer_

_to me. He’s not had the easiest time, which he’ll tell you about if he wants to. Just don’t lead him on. He’s very good_

_at what he does and he doesn’t deserve more shit in his life than he’s already had. I’ll talk to you later. JW_

Greg tried to look as though he were studying the file and slid the drawer shut on the note. He wondered what kind of shit the young man had gone through. _Ah well, he’ll tell me if he wants to,_ he thought.

“Greg, you found it then?” John came through the door, coffees in hand. He handed one to Sherlock, and one to Greg before sipping his own.

“Yeah, thanks. Look, this is a bit of an odd one, don’t you think?”

John nodded and shrugged. “Not the oddest I’ve ever had but frankly, one of them. There isn’t much to tell, just his blood group, ethicity, background... his name…”

“Wait a minute, his name?” Greg said incredulously.

John smiled. “You can thank Sherlock for that one, really. Let me start with the boring details first. I’d say this lad was middle class, probably earning a decent wage. The socks are from a good quality high street retailer, and not the cheapest. They might have been a present but more likely from a relative anyway. Friends do not buy you socks, certainly not a young man like this. His toe nails were well cared for, and the foot is clean. He’s not scruffy or unkempt, so he’s not homeless. The stuff in his shoe treads, beach sand. The skin is slightly tanned, there are faint lines of a sandal being worn, so he’s been somewhere warm in the last six months for long enough to acquire a tan and sand in his shoes. The shoe was relatively well cared for so either he’s not worn them much or he simply takes care of them. Sherlock? You want to tell him what you found?”

Sherlock nodded and swung into his professional mode. “I recognized them as being customisable from Chuck Taylor, on the internet. We have a name because the site they were bought from allows you to put your ID on them. They’re popular with skateboarders and those with an eye for street fashion. These have the name Bazza Bailey on the heel stripe. It’s faint but it’s there, if you know where to look. Bazza, common enough short form of Barry or Brian. Hopefully you can get the information on the original order from the website and get an address.”

“Bloody hell, fellas. That...is brilliant.” Greg stood there, amazed. Sherlock actually blushed. John smiled. “And you said there wasn’t much to tell.”

“Okay," John said. "But I honestly cannot tell time of death or where he died…”

“I know this is going to sound stupid,” Greg said. “We don’t actually know that, do we? I mean, it’s unlikely that someone has a foot cut off so surgically when the shoe and sock are still on but there’s no proof yet that the rest of the man is dead yet, is there?”

“Well, no, not strictly,” John agreed. “I highly doubt that he had a foot amputated without the proper surgical protocols being in place but there’s an outside chance. I mean, why though?”

“No bloody idea,” Greg said with a grin. “Just struck me that while we don’t have a body, we’re not actually looking at a murder victim. I mean, it’s more than likely he’s dead but we don’t know…”

“Shrodinger’s cat,” Sherlock said.

“Whose cat?”

“Shrodinger….”

“God, not that again,” John said with a smile.

“I’ll explain later,” Sherlock said, peering into a microscope.

“Well, guys,” Greg said as he checked his watch. “That’s me done for the day. We can pursue the address stuff later. Fancy that drink, Sherlock?” Greg turned to John. “Want to come along? You’re welcome.”

“Thanks but not tonight, I’ve some stuff to finish here,” John said with a smile at Sherlock.

“Yes, right,” Sherlock stood up. “It’s okay with you if I get off then?”

John grinned at the unintentional innuendo and nodded. “Yeah, go. Have fun, kids. Play nicely.”


	4. Two Left Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting of the John Watson Appreciation Society.

“So…” Sherlock seemed to be searching for something to say. He glanced at Greg and his brow furrowed. “Where shall we go? Do you know a good pub round here?”

“There’s one up the road isn’t bad. Got some secluded booths at the back if we’re lucky…” Sherlock was actually blushing, Greg noticed, trying to suppress his smile. They walked along in amiable silence for a while, although Sherlock was obviously trying, and failing, to think of something to say. Greg decided to put him out of his misery and smiled warmly before asking “So, what was that business about what'sisname, Shrodinger?”

“Oh, that. It's quantum theory, parallel universes, that kind of thing."

"That kind of thing, hm?" Greg was beginning to feel out of his depth.

"It's simple, really..." _Always providing you have a degree in difficult sums and a Post-Grad in blagging..._ "You put a cat in a box with the means for its destruction which may or may not occur so the cat may or may not be dead when you open the box. Quantum theory states that until the box is opened and the observer sees the result that all states are possible, ie, the cat is both dead and alive and all points between. However, seeing as how you cannot have more than one state of being existing in the same universe, the cat cannot be both alive and dead at the same time, so separate universes are created to accommodate the individual states once the box is opened and the observer observes." Sherlock paused to see if Greg was following. The man was hanging on to every word but his expression was frankly less than encouraging. Sherlock ploughed on anyway. "So effectively parallel universes are created in which the cat is alive, dead, starving, dying, any number of infinite states of being. Quantum decoherence makes certain that…”

“Hold on, quantum what?”

"Decoherence. Do try to keep up, Greg. Quantum decoherence means that these separate universes cannot interact with each other and so the theory remains just that, a theory.”

“Wow...well, that’s… Look, sorry to disappoint you but…” Greg sighed. “I seriously have no idea what you’re on about, but it sounds like amazing stuff and you really seem to understand it..." Greg was floundering already. He hadn’t even passed his physics O Level. “So, Sherlock, what were you up to before you came here?” he asked in an attempt to deflect the conversation onto more mundane topics.

“You make that sound like I was up to something nefarious, Inspector,” Sherlock replied with a grin, seeming to shrug off Lestrade’s lack of understanding.

“Were you? It’s my job to find out these things, you know?” Greg breathed a mental sigh of relief. _Thank god that was done with. How to make a prat of yourself_ , he thought, morosely. _Just show the man how dim you really are._

"Boringly I was studying my Masters at King’s College, MSc in Forensic Science. Before that, various jobs, working for my brother in the government mostly, which wasn’t _as_ boring, I have to admit.”

“Your brother?”

“Hm, my elder brother, Mycroft. He’s the successful one…” There’s a story there, Greg thought, but didn’t respond. There had been a definite edge to Sherlock’s tone there. “He works for the Government in an advisory capacity.” That sounded like a rote reply too. “He calls me in to help sometimes.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Greg replied.

“Oh, it’s quite boring, I assure you. Just not as boring as studying. It’s Official Secrets stuff though, so I can’t discuss it. I’m sorry…”

“No, no, that’s quite alright. I actually do understand.” Greg grinned at his companion and watched the blush deepen. With anybody else he might have thought they were bullshitting him about the official secrets thing but somehow, it didn’t seem Sherlock was the sort to do so. “Although how you can say studying for your Masters was boring is beyond me.”

They arrived at the pub and Greg leaned on the door and held it open for Sherlock to go through. Inside it was beginning to fill with people leaving work. He worked his way through to the back and found a booth, sliding in to claim it. Sherlock slid in opposite and shed his coat. “What are you having?” Greg asked, fishing for his wallet.

“Oh...er...a pint of...whatever you’re having,” he said vaguely.

“Stella?” Sherlock nodded and Greg went to the bar to order. When he got back Sherlock was sitting straight-backed, serene, with his eyes closed. He opened them when Greg put their glasses down, and smiled.

“Thank you. Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“You’re allowed to, although I’m told it can be dangerous.”

Sherlock chuckled. “It’s just my mind palace…”

“Mind what?”

“Palace. It’s a memory aid. I was trying to remember something.”

“Oh, like association?”

Sherlock nodded. “In a manner of speaking. It can wait…”

“No, please, don’t let me stop you,” Greg said.

“Seriously, it can wait.” Sherlock took a sip of his drink and regarded Greg with those pale eyes and a slight smile. “Why would I want to waste time on recall when I’m having a drink with you?”

“So, Sherlock,” Greg said, carefully ignoring the come on. It didn’t do to be too easy, after all. “Are you enjoying the job? Is it permanent?”

“It’s a year’s contract but it’s full time, might turn permanent but that depends on Molly’s return. She might not want to come back, you never know.”

Greg smiled. “I’m sorry I missed her before she went. I liked her.”

“I know. Molls is a nice person.” Sherlock glanced toward the detective inspector and his smile widened. “It was Molls got me the job.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, we knew each other in Uni in when we were studying our Bachelors, kept in touch, you know the kind of thing. She called me and asked if I would like some locum work. I’d just finished my Masters and was bumming around Europe at the time. Came straight home and met John, and...well, the rest is history.”

“Good for you. So you got your Masters then?”

“Oh yes. My Bachelor’s is in Chemistry. I was a consulting detective for a few years until my brother suggested I actually study Forensics. Get a proper qualification, he said.”

“You were a...consulting detective? What is that, exactly?”

“I helped the police with cases. You know, murders and such.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs.”

“That was why my brother thought I should get the qualification and then he could register me as a professional consultant.”

“That makes sense, I guess. This brother of yours sounds sensible.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. “Mycroft? I’m not sure sensible is the epithet I would use. He’s pompous and too serious and overbearing...Mycroft is the typical big brother.” Sherlock stared at Greg and his brows drew together again. “So, Greg, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You know more about me that I do about you.”

“Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“How long have you been with the police?”

“Too long,” Greg replied with a chuckle. “Thirty years, give or take.”

“So...how old are you, exactly?”

“Fifty in June. Too bloody old and should know better.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not. I mean it, you don’t look it. Despite your hair, your face doesn’t carry the age markers for fifty,” Sherlock insisted.

“Thanks, I think.”

“Besides, you’re a very good looking man. You shouldn’t worry about how you look.”

Greg’s head came up sharply and he glared at Sherlock but the man wasn’t looking at him. “I think there might be something defective with your eyesight, you know,” Greg warned. “I’d get that checked if I were you.”

“I didn’t take you for stupid, Greg. ”

“I’m too old for you.”

“John said you would say that.”

“Well then, he’s right. I am.”

“And he wasn’t agreeing with you. He told me to ignore it if you said that.”

“Traitor…”

“Look, Greg…” Their eyes met and Sherlock’s mouth dried. He looked away. “I don’t find this sort of thing easy. I’m not...not a very nice person…”

“Why would you say that? You seem okay to me.”

“I’ve done things. Things I’m not proud of, in the past. I can be a bit of a bastard, to be honest.”

Greg frowned. Sherlock seemed to be dead serious but it was a bit of a stretch to imagine the young man as anything other than sweet and a bit geeky. Greg recalled John’s note and wondered about the _he doesn’t deserve more shit in his life than he’s already had_ comment. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“I felt you should know, in case we…, well, before you do something you’ll regret. I’m not easy to live with. I’m socially inept, I play the violin when I’m thinking, even when it’s four in the morning. I prefer to text people rather than talk to them and sometimes I don’t speak for days...That’s hardly normal, is it?” He sank a third of his pint and frowned into it. “I’m not...very good, at things like this. I don’t look at things like everybody else. I have a high IQ and I border on insanity sometimes.”

“Ah, the fine line between genius and insanity.”

"Don’t mock…” Sherlock closed in on himself, defensive and wary.

“I wasn’t, actually. It can be hard sometimes, I know. Sorry if it came out wrong.” Sherlock gazed at him from under his lowered brows. There were adorable wrinkles across the bridge of his nose. Greg smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “Really didn’t aim to make you feel bad.”

“Accepted. I’m sorry too. I tend to jump a little…”

“Defensive reaction?”

“Quite.” Sherlock sighed. “People tend to call me unkind things when they get to know me properly. Oddly enough, John has never done that.”

“Like what?”

“Geek is the least of them. _Freak_ and _Wierdo_ are common epithets.”

“You point out anybody who calls you that to me. I’ll sort em out for you,” Greg offered. “You don’t look like a freak and you bloody well don’t deserve to be called one.”

“Thank you but I fear those terms are richly deserved. I am, as I said, not nice.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Greg replied.

“Oh, you will be, unfortunately. It happens sooner or later. I neglect people, you see. I don’t have friends. I only seem to have one…”

“And that’s John? ”

“John seems impervious. Nothing I do or say seems to phase him. He’s...well, he’s just nice.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Sherlock. There is far more to John Watson than first meets the eye and he...shall we say, he has hidden depths. Have you actually shown your true colours to him yet?“

“He’s weathered it, more than once.”

“If he hasn’t risen to it and told you to piss off, then he obviously doesn’t feel there’s a need.”

Sherlock frowned at that but nodded his agreement of Greg’s assessment. “Maybe. I actually hoped that...well...that he might be...”

“What, interested? So did I once. He’s very quiet, plays his cards close to his chest.”

“Very straight.”

“Actually, John Watson is higher up the Kinsey scale that you think, but he’s not looking. He’s simply not interested, Sherlock. Believe me, I’ve tried. It would be nice to think he had someone but…” Greg shook his head sadly. “I hate to think of him alone. He’s a brilliant guy, and you are right, he’s nice with it.”

“Sounds like you really like him,” Sherlock said softly.

“I do. Yes, I very much do. But. No point hankering after something you can’t have, is there?”

A heavy sigh met his words and Greg’s gaze focused on Sherlock. The young man was looking wistfully at him, then covered himself by gulping his pint. “Um...well.” Sherlock made a show of checking his watch. “I’d… er…best get gone. Early start tomorrow, you know…”

“Er...yeah, okay. Me too actually.” Greg took another swig of his pint and regarded Sherlock over the rim of the glass. The man looked flustered and a bit lost. Greg set the glass down. “This was nice, yeah? We should do it more often.”

Sherlock nodded and drained his own pint. “My shout next time, though.”

Greg dredged a grin up from somewhere. “Alright. Well, you take care then.”

“Sure, you too. See you…”

 

**0o0o0o0o0**

 

Greg paused outside the pub door. That hadn’t gone to plan. He figured he’d had a good chance with the man; Sherlock was personable, despite what he’d revealed. He was prepared to give things a chance but they had ended up in some sad John Watson fan club. Greg was at a loss as to how to define John’s appeal. The pathologist had a brilliant mind, he was also compassionate and kind, but he was damaged. And he wasn’t looking. Something had happened to put him off relationships. Whether he would ever date again was not something Greg would like to bet on. There was a ‘confirmed bachelor’ status to John Watson that didn’t look like changing any time soon. Greg hailed a taxi and headed home, frustration burning coldly in his belly.

 

**0o0o0o0o0**

 

Greg spent the morning following up their new leads, giving sally the job of tracing Mr Bailey from his Chuck Taylor order and following up on the cctv images from the roads around the area. He would have to wait for that, so he set to with the rest of the report John had given him and sat thinking about it over coffee and donuts. His mind kept straying to Sherlock, though. The man was damaged in some way but Greg wasn’t certain how. Yet. He would find out, it was what he did. After all, if he couldn’t find out then he wasn’t worth his warrant card.

One look at Sherlock’s face in the morning told John everything he wanted to know. “Okay, Sherlock, what went wrong?" Sherlock glanced up and glowered. “Oh, come on. Tell Uncle John what happened…”

"You are not my uncle and nothing went wrong, exactly…”

“You two didn’t hit it off, did you?”

“Well, we did, actually...but I think I may have...well, put my foot in it.”

“Oh, for the love of… How, Sherlock? What did you do?”

“I told him I wasn’t nice, but he was very sweet about it. We might go for a drink again but...we’ve both got...issues.”

“You’re a berk, that’s for certain.”

“All he could chat about was you.”

“Me? What on earth…?”

“You. We all know you’re not in the market though. You’ve made your position clear.”

John nodded and cocked an eyebrow. “I know. I know. Look, Sherlock...I wish you two would just talk to each other a bit more. Greg is a nice guy, even if there is an age gap.”

“He said he was too old.”

“Bollocks. He’s fit as a fiddle, if a bit long in the tooth. He’s not over the hill yet and no mistake.”

“Yes, well, enough of that. I’ve been thinking about our legless guest.”

“Have you? I won’t wonder how talking about Greg brought that to mind. Was he that drunk last night?” Sherlock gave him a blank look. John rolled his eyes. “Joke, Sherlock,” he said. “You were talking about someone being legless. You know, drunk?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Very funny, John,” he replied dryly. “Seriously, we need to follow up the order Mr Bailey made to Chuck Taylor. They’ll have an address for him. Hopefully Lestrade is following up on the cctv imagery. The thing is….”

“What?” John looked up as Sherlock’s voice tailed off.

“I’ve been wondering why they did it.”

“Did what? Murder Mr Bailey?”

“No. Throw his dismembered foot into a building site. I mean, there’s no point. It didn’t send a message, did it?”

John shrugged. “Made the news last night,” he said. “Hard to keep that kind of thing quiet. So, they did get publicity. Whoever they are.”

“It might have been one person. Whoever it was would have had to be next to the window side of the car in order to get a good throw in. The Driver could have done it, if they paused long enough. They were heading west, on the left hand side of the road, so the driver would have been on the side closest to the window.”

“Maybe they got out, lobbed it and jumped back in and drove off.”

“Possibly, John.” Sherlock frowned. “We know they threw from that side, because of the blood drop on the other side of the road. Trajectory puts them about three hundred yards from the junction, not far before the pub car park.”

The phone rang, jarring into the silence as the men thought about the facts. John picked it up and frowned. “Okay, we’ll meet you there.” He scribbled something on a pad and said goodbye, then replaced the phone on it’s rest and regarded Sherlock with a neutral stare. “They’ve found another foot,” he said.

“Oh good, more of Mr Bailey.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” John said. “Seems we are in the unenviable position of being in possession of two left feet."


	5. Conundrums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit more complicated on several levels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, real life got in my way. Secondly, I've hit massive, and I mean MASSIVE, writers' block with this story. I have no idea where it is going. Any ideas, please let me know. Suggestions, prompts, anything... I need inspiration and it is sadly lacking, hense the short chapter.

“Technically this is impossible…” Sherlock eyed the body part suspiciously, crouching to eye level with the table on which the offending limb had been placed. “This one is dressed just the same; same converse, same colours, same name, same...everything…”  
“Maybe. But we can’t have two Bazza Bailey’s, now can we?” John stared at the foot, amputated in the same place as the other one, with a left converse with the—seemingly—exact same colour and name. “So there might be two pairs of the same converse in the world.”  
“Twins?” Greg suggested.  
“Thanks for that, inspector. So we have twins who happen to have the same first name, the same taste in clothes and the same inclination for body modification? Come off it, Greg!” John shot him a glare and Greg burst out laughing.  
“Come on, John,” Greg said with a grin. “Even you have to agree it’s pretty bloody wild. I have no idea what’s going on with this one. If it wasn’t for the fact that there’s a potential murder behind all this, it would be a joke.”  
John shook his head. “I think we’re going to find it really isn’t that complicated. First off, I suspect that isn’t another left foot. The shoe might be, but the foot inside isn’t. There’s something off about it. I have a feeling you’re dealing with the same body but what the fuck is going through the mind of the person doing this is anybody’s guess.” John was busy removing the shoe, extracting the foot inside. Sure enough, a right foot emerged. “There we are. we are now in possession of a left and a right foot. Similar look, same size, same clean nails. Same colour skin, so… chances are this belongs to Mr Bailey as well. Sherlock, take some tissue samples please, get the DNA matched. Check the order history and see if he made a double order or even two separate orders. This shoe looks a bit more worn, maybe a previous pair?"  
"Thoughts?" Greg enquired, watching Sherlock get to work.  
"This case is weird? They're sending some kind of message? Gut feeling says this is not random, this is carefully thought out, but... who this is targeting... I would say us; you or me or both. After all, we're the ones on the receiving end."  
"Well, we don't have the body, " Greg said. "We've been to his flat, found his address from the shoe order. We know he was an IT technician for Kitchener Foster Law. They're specialists in employment law, based at Canary Wharf. Nobody has seen him for over a week, he went on holiday and they've not seen him since. He was supposed to have three weeks off."  
"Family?" John asked.  
"We're trying to trace them."  
"He's from around here?"  
"Moved in three years ago, according to his landlord, family not far away, far as we can gather. John..."  
"Hm?" John watched Greg track Sherlock out of the room with his eyes. "What?"  
"What is this bullshit about Sherlock not being nice?"

"Sherlock didn't have the best childhood, " John explained as they sat in the pub after work. "It's made him demanding, selfish he says."  
"Told me it was his brother suggested he get the forensics qualification, to legitimise his police work or something?" Greg suggested.  
"Brother's an overbearing twat if you ask me."  
"Met him, then?"  
"To my cost. Man's a wanker, some government flunky; posh suits, rod up his arse, stupid toff..."  
"You like him then..." Greg grinned.  
John laughed. "Is it so obvious? Man's more of an emotional cripple than his little brother."  
"You like his little brother though. You left me that note..."  
"Yeah, I like him. He’s a nice lad."  
"So?"  
"So what? I'm not looking, Greg, you know that."  
"Yeah, I do, and you've never told me why, John. It's been, what, five years?"  
John sighed. "Longer than that, actually. Look, I lost someone, okay? It's complicated..."  
"When isn't it?" Greg sympathised. "You're a lonely man, John. I just wish you'd let someone in."  
"Like you, you mean?"  
"Yeah, no... I don't mean me, necessarily, but... You don't deserve to be alone, mate. You're a nice guy..."  
"Thanks for that, Greg, but... look, I know you mean well..."  
Greg sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I'll shut up and fuck off, John. I know when I'm beaten. Tell you this for nothing though, that kid likes you. I took him out the other night and we both ended up bemoaning that you’re not interested in either of us.” John regarded him with an oddly bashful expression. “You'd be good for each other, John. I wish you’d at least think about it, please."  
"That's the bloody problem, mate. I can't stop thinking about it. Have you ever read his blog?”  
“Nope. Didn’t know he had one. However, I’m not the most net-savvy person on this earth, specially when some spotty git from IT has to come down twice a week and tell me how I got it wrong cos my computer has fucked up again. I swear if he patronises me once more I’ll shove his flash drive so far up his arse…”  
John chuckled. “The old man of tech, are we?”  
“Watch it, Sunshine. At least I know what a blog actually is.”  
“Well, here.” John took out his smartphone and tapped it a few times, then swivelled it toward Greg. “There you go, The Science of Deduction. That’s his.”  
Greg read through what appeared to be reams of information on deductive reasoning, outlining techniques and case studies, showing the world how clever he was. He kept mentioning John’s comments, John’s advice, John’s support for his theories. “Mentions you a lot,” Greg observed.  
“Yeah, I know. Precious, isn’t he?” John muttered.  
“I’d say he’s got a bad case of hero worship.”  
“Look, Greg, he likes you too, you know. He was bashful as all hell the other night, then when you suggested you both go out… He couldn’t wait. He was on pins all day like a teenager waiting for a date.”  
“He’s a nice guy but teenager he isn’t,” Greg admitted. “How old is he? 28, 30?”  
“34 actually. He’s older than he looks.”  
“Well, there you go. Certainly not a baby.”  
“John, stop matchmaking. It won’t work, not when we’re both fixated on you.”  
“Wish you’d stop that. I am not looking, end of.”  
“John…”  
“Greg, please stop.”  
“Tell me then. Who did you lose? When? How? John, how do you expect me to understand if you don’t share? You cannot let grief ruin your life like this.”  
“Oh yes, I can.” John’s voice had turned to steel. “I’ll tell you if and when I want to, not before. That’s enough, Greg. If you’re my friend, you’ll take the hint and back off, now.” John stood, nearly knocking his chair over. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	6. It's All Relative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I may have broken through writers' block...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I've made a hash of this, if you spot anything wrong, please tell me, kindly, in the comments...

Watching John leave the pub, Greg wondered if he'd gone too far. John was a private man and Greg immediately felt guilty for forcing the issue. He was still pondering the following day, as he drove into work. He knew he'd pushed John the previous evening, pushed to find out more about the man than maybe he felt Greg was entitled know. He worried that he'd damaged their friendship and fired off a quick text apologising for his actions. He wasn't surprised when he got no reply.

Sally accosted him as soon as he got to work with the news that she had tracked down their victim's sister. She handed him a file and lead him to an interview room where a young blond woman was pacing the floor, looking worried. "Ms. Bailey?" Greg held the chair out for her to sit. He glanced at the file Sally had handed him and located the girl’s name. "Sonia?"

"Yes, that's me. Look, this is about Baz, right? My brother? Please, has something happened? He didn’t show at Sunday lunch, he never does that without at least calling mum. We’ve not seen him since he went off on holiday over two weeks since. Mum had one text while he was away to say he’d arrived and that’s all. We’re worried, all of us.”

“All of you? Who is that exactly?”

“Me, mum, Joe and Lisa.”

"Joe and Lisa?"

"Our brother and sister..."

"Younger or older?"

"Joe's youngest. Baz...Barry is eldest. Me and Lisa are twins, in the middle."

“Dad?”

“He’s dead, when Lisa and me was little. Look, what’s happened?”

“We’re not sure yet. Look, this is a little unusual, Sonia. We're in possession of some of Barry's...belongings, but...we don't yet know if something has happened to him. He’s officially on the missing persons register and we need to find him. Anything you can tell us about his friends, his work, anything you know might help. So, I'm going to leave you with Sergeant Donovan here and you tell her everything you know, okay?"

“Okay. I’ll do my best, but I’m not sure there’s much to tell…”

“Anything you can think of, however trivial it might sound to you.” Greg ignored Sally's glare and vacated the room, hoping Sal would manage to glean something useful. She was better than him at getting information out of people. Greg sent a swift text to John, to let him know about the lead. Then he cleared a bit of paperwork while waiting both John’s reply and/or Sally’s return. Sally returned first, which didn’t bode well, considering she was gone for over an hour and still no word from John.

“Thanks for that, boss. What was all that about?” Sally was pissed off and looked it.

“Doing your job, Sergeant? I had a couple of calls to make, important calls, and you’re better at that lark than I am. Now what did you find out?”

“Apparently there is...or was, a boyfriend,” Sally said on her return.

“Boyfriend? So Barry was what, Bi or Gay?”

“Gay, she thinks. At least, he’d never been interested in women, so it looks that way. The boyfriend’s name is Darryn Sherwood. They’ve been seeing each other for the last six months, and apparently that’s who the family thought Mr Bailey was on holiday with. However, there’s no sign of Sherwood. He’s not answering his phone and he doesn’t seem to be home. Barry’s sister says she went round to his flat, twice, and phoned him about six times when Barry didn’t get in touch. Nothing.” Sally paused, chewing her bottom lip.

“What? You’ve got that look again.”

“Little Sis doesn’t like the boyfriend. She’s trying to hide it but from what she told me, she’s keen for us to investigate him. At the moment we don’t have his photo although she says her brother posted a photo on Facebook when they met. She’s with someone from IT accessing her Facebook feed to see if she can get it and she was rather eager to do so. IT will send the picture on as soon as they get anything useful. She also gave me Sherwood’s address so I sent uniform to check it out with instructions to bring him in if they find him. If he’s not there I’ve told them to watch the property for his return and I’ve sent someone to canvas the neighbours, see if they know anything. Sherwood apparently hasn’t been seen at work since he went on holiday either. Works at ASDA,” she added as Greg raised an eyebrow. “When I got his name and details, I traced where he works and sent someone to chat to his manager. Apparently Darryn was a quiet man who never caused trouble, conscientious worker, not off sick much, in fact an all round good guy, blah, blah, blah, the usual. He had friends, he was nice, and they knew he was gay. Pretty normal really.”

“Good work, Sal. See if the port authorities can confirm whether they left the UK in the first place, and if they did, when did they come back? If indeed they did. We know Barry did, or at least his feet made it back, even if we don’t have the rest of him.” Greg huffed a gusty breath and frowned. “Where’s this Sherwood character’s address?"

“Brixton, why?”

“A hunch. If it’s right, I have a feeling this case just turned a corner.” His phone pinged. It was a text from Sherlock, not John.

**Meet us at the Morgue. There’s been a development. SH**

 

**00000000**

 

“Okay, what do you know?” Greg said as he pushed through the morgue doors less than a half-hour later. He was greeted with a frosty stare from John, and Sherlock glanced across, a little uncomfortable.

“Oh, for god’s sake…” he muttered. “I have repeatedly told you, John, he did not mean it. He’s concerned. We both are…”

“Shut it, Sherlock. Let’s keep this professional?”

“Professional? You are hardly acting professionally…”

“Sherlock,” Greg said quietly. “It’s okay. What have you found?”

Sherlock huffed a frustrated sigh. “First off, I did some digging on the internet. The builder’s yard belongs to one Mr Richard ‘Ricky’ Greaves, does it not?”

“Yeah, we knew that from the start. Why?”

“Did you also know that Mr Greaves is Bailey’s uncle?”

“Uncle? Bloody hell…”

“Yes, well, looks like he kept that connection quiet,” Sherlock explained. “Apparently, Greaves found out that Barry was gay about six months ago, came round to the family home and went ballistic.”

“And you know this how exactly?”

“I have...contacts…”

“Contacts?”

“Yes...I got in touch with my...network.”

“Network? Exactly who are we talking about here?”

Now it was John’s turn to get exasperated. “Oh, for Goodness’ sake, Lock. Just tell him.”

Sherlock shot him a hunted look. “My brother…” he said reluctantly.

“You got in touch with your brother?”

“No, actually. He got in touch with me. Said it was... well, he told me to tell you, actually.”

“Tell me what?”

“That he had found out something of interest and he felt he ought to share it.”

“Bollocks,” Greg said and met John’s eyes.

“That is what I said," John agreed.

Sherlock sighed. “He does this sometimes. He interferes for no good reason, as if I can’t do the bloody job alone. That’s why I don’t work with him, or for him very often.”

“So did he share anything else?”

“Just that the uncle, Greaves, wasn’t happy about his nephew’s _lifestyle choice,_ apparently. He caused a deal of trouble and threatened to put anybody into the ground who tried, and I quote, “making Barry gay”, so it looks like we might have a suspect.”

“But why throw body parts into your own builder’s yard?” Greg speculated. “Unless he was trying to deflect suspicion.”

“Quite possible,” John agreed. “But we still don’t have any more of Barry’s body.”

“And nothing at all where the boyfriend is concerned,” Greg added.

“There’s a boyfriend?”

“Well, that’s what his sister told us, and she said not a word about the uncle.”

“She knows who did it?”

“Sally said she sounded as though she felt we should be investigating the boyfriend.”

“Well, whoever did this, it’s pretty bloody bizarre.”

“I have no idea," Greg admitted, "but Sherwood? The boyfriend? He lives in Brixton. If he comes from the family I think he does, then there’s a big crime connection. He could go to ground and we’d never find him. He might already be out of the country. Hell, he might not have come back in the first place.”

“John, I think we might need to look at those body parts again,” Sherlock said softly.

“What? Why?”

“Just...hunch…”

John sighed. “Okay, come on then.”

Greg left them to it. It looked like John was happy to see him go anyway.

 

**000000000**

 

“Sir?” 

“Sally.”

“Don’t take your coat off, we’re going out again.”

“Where this time?”

“Greaves’ Builder’s yard. There’s a body…”

“Port authorities confirm both men left the UK a couple of days after Barry left work and reentered six days ago,” Sally confirmed as they drove toward Greaves’ builder’s yard.

“Fits with what we know.”

“No sign of Sherwood or Bailey from approximately 24 hours after they arrived back in the UK.”

“CCTV?”

“Nothing beyond getting into a taxi at Heathrow.”

This time, there were signs of a scuffle. Ricky Greaves lay on the floor of his Portacabin with his head bashed in, near another body that was sitting in the chair behind the desk, one arm extended, finger pointing accusingly in Greaves’ direction. When Greg looked, sure enough, there were no feet on the body behind the desk. “Ricky Greaves, you’re fired,” Greg deadpanned, frowning down at the remains of the man on the floor. “Someone is taking the piss here, and it isn’t me.” He cast a look around the room. “And I don’t need to be a genius to spot that this is a set up.”

“So what do we have here?” Greg looked up to see John Watson in the doorway and behind him, Sherlock peering in through the door. “Job interview gone wrong?”

“Looks like Bob the Builder found the one thing he couldn’t fix,” Greg said. “Body behind the desk is your missing corpse, John. No feet, and it fits the photo IT gave me from Bailey’s Facebook feed.”

“So who is the body on the floor?”

“The Uncle, Richard Greaves.”

“So who killed him?”

“No fucking idea. You’re the forensic expert.”

“Well, I can tell you that it wasn’t the man behind the desk.”

“Funny.” Greg turned to the SOCOs. “All yours, fellas.” He walked out of the portacabin and into the fresh air.

Sherlock followed, John bringing up the rear. “Do you think it might have been the boyfriend? Revenge for his lover’s death?” Sherlock suggested. “Greaves kills him, or has him killed, and then Sherwood kills Greaves?”

“Possible, but we don’t yet know where Sherwood is. Chances are he could be dead too.”

“What? Greaves kills them both and then the sister kills him, maybe?”

“Check whether Sherwood had family,” John said from behind them.

“I’ve got people on it now. If I’m right, then we may well have trouble on our hands.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s interest was peaked. “You mentioned earlier that you knew his name."

"Well, this was quite obviously set up to put the frighteners on Greaves, in my opinion. Setting up Barry’s body like that,” Greg said. “It carries a certain sick style there. A style I’ve seen before.”

“Where?”

“In Brixton, about four years ago. The Harrison Whitstock murder case. Look it up. You’ll see a familiar name in there.”

“Well, someone got a hold of the body, somehow. Obviously knew where it was. Hauling a heavy body is not an easy thing to do, you need strength to do it or more than one person involved. Setting this up would have been hard to keep a secret. I suggest pulling CCTV from the area. Might throw some light on things.”

“Got someone on that. Look...John…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You’re about to apologise for last night. Don’t.”

“I…”

“I was out of order, Greg. I’m a touchy shit at best, you should know that by now. Apology accepted by the way, and may I offer you mine?”

Greg shrugged. “Suppose, but the fault is mine really.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let that be the end of it.” John thrust out a hand. Greg shrugged and reached out, finding his hand gripped hard and shaken with John’s customary economy.

“Okay. Drink after work?” Greg suggested.

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

**000000000**

 

“Any sign of movement?”

“Nothing, boss. Oh, hang on, there’s a car pulling up.”

Greg peered through the lens of the camera Sally passed over. “IC1 female, blond, mid-30s, getting out of a mini, registration FG54 YHX.” Greg pressed the camera button and the drive whirred, taking several shots of the woman and the car. “Sally, run that will you? Find out who she is?”

“Already on it, boss.” They were on surveillance outside Samuel Sherwood’s Brixton address. He had turned out to be the father of the missing man. “The car is registered to Tracy Sherwood, nee Brown, same address as Samuel Sherwood. Wife? She must be twenty years younger than him.”

“Possibly. More to this than meets the eye though.” Greg’s phone pinged. He read the text. It was from John.

**Picked up a fingerprint from the scene. Partial on the watch Barry was wearing. Match to Samuel Sherwood.**

“Bugger,” Greg said. “Sherwood’s prints have been identified at the crime scene.”

“Puts him at the scene. Grounds for arrest?”

“Grounds for a little chat. John found a partial on Bailey’s watch.”

“He’s get around that by saying it was a gift. Specially if his son and Bailey were lovers. He’ll make out he’s fine with it all.”

“Yeah sure, the man is a homophobe of the highest order. On record.”

“Won’t stop him claiming he’s changed his mind and playing the part of generous supportive parent.”

“Well, if we try anything too soon he’ll have the lawyers on us for harassment so fast our feet won’t touch the ground.”

“So we wait. We need to evaluate the coming and goings here first.”

“Yes we do, and I am leaving that to your expert hands, Sergeant. Dimmock and Brown are not far away in case you need backup, but I’ll be back later.” He handed the camera over.

“Where are you going now?” Sally asked.

“To see someone. And it's 'where are you going now, _sir_ ', Sergeant.” Greg left quickly, walking to his car that he’d parked three streets away. He slid into the driver’s seat, glancing around to make sure he was alone. He started the car and pulled out into the High Street traffic, pretty sure he hadn’t been either seen or followed. While his BMW wasn’t the best, it wasn’t the worst either, but nobody had tried to nick it, at least. The traffic was busy and he was soon swallowed up in the midday rush, but it wasn’t long before he became aware that he was being followed by a rather large black car. He made two unnecessary left turns, spacing them apart a bit to appear innocuous, but the car stuck to him, and he headed for NSY as fast as he could without turning on the blues and twos. He called in and used his inspector’s authority to run the number plate through the DVLA database. It came back as classified. Surprised, he pulled into the NSY car park and sat there, wondering who in the hell rode in a car with a classified ID and would bother to tail him. As he sat there, his phone pinged.

**We should talk. MH**

**Who the fuck is this?**

**You work with my brother. MH**

Greg stared at the text. MH.  _Mycroft Holmes? Really?_

**Mycroft Holmes. Yes, I rather think we should. Come up to my office. Now is as good a time as any.**

Greg got out of his car, crossed to the lift and rode it up to his floor in thoughtful silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we are? Does it hang together?

**Author's Note:**

> I make no apologies for the puns....


End file.
